* NOSTALGIC SUNDAY *

It's Time for Another Nostalgic Sunday!

For tonight's Nostalgic Sunday, I'm sharing more random snippets from my memoir. These paragraphs are from various chapters and will perhaps pique your interest.

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It felt like we were flying along the highway, even though the car’s tires weren’t actually leaving the road. Almost all of the windows were rolled down, and my dad’s left arm rested comfortably on the driver’s side door, giving him that funny one-armed sunburn he got every summer. It was so hot that Dad’s white, cotton, short-sleeved shirt stuck to his skin. My mother poured yet another cup of steaming hot coffee from the thermos and handed it over to him. Dad barely took his eyes off the road as he took it. I couldn’t imagine why he wanted something so hot to drink. Mother brought a cold jug of Kool-Aid for my brother Mike and me.

Times like these, I wished I had a crew cut like my brother or a flattop like my dad. The force of the wind whipped my long pigtails around so much they actually stung my face every time they slapped against it. 

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Grandpa was a quiet spoken man, always pleasant and easy going. Grandma had an extremely peculiar voice, which I can’t possibly describe. Let’s just say it wasn’t a soft, ladylike tone. It kind of reminded me of Ma Kettle’s, especially since she bossed Grandpa around all the time. He was old and retired from his job, so he was home a lot. It got on my nerves, but I guess he’d learned to just tune her out. They’d been married for about 100 years, so he was used to it.

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Mother did relent after I begged and begged for some white go-go boots. All the girls dancing on the TV show, Hullabaloo, wore them and they were so cute. The popular girls at school had them, too. Surely, I could be popular and cute, too, right? Uh…no. It also didn’t take long to realize they hurt my feet and really weren’t worth the price. They stayed on the floor of my bedroom closet for years, all scuffed and unappreciated, just like I deemed I was.

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I grew up in a home where chiropractors were thought of as quacks. The word “chiropractor” itself was pronounced with such disdain that even as a little girl, I knew I didn’t want to ever see one. I was even afraid of “real doctors,” those with an M.D. after their names. My parents, though, considered them to be God-like. They faithfully followed all their instructions and advice, and they also trusted nurses, pharmacists, and dentists. But chiropractors? My mother practically shuddered at the very thought. 

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Faith, hope, and a sense of humor have always been important in my life, and I’ve learned you don’t have to have a perfect childhood or a perfect life to be truly happy. The joy just comes from within, from your daily appreciation of life, and from whatever warm memories you hold in your heart.

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My mother told me in so many words she thought I was nuts. She honestly believed my accident at Woolworth’s—involving an ice machine, a crowbar, and my head—caused severe brain damage. In her way of thinking, it was the only possible explanation for what she considered the erratic behavior I developed soon after.

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** Monday, December 9th, please stop by Karen Lange's blog, Write Now. Besides sharing some great "Tips for Every Writer," Karen was kind enough to mention me and my memoir. Thank you, Karen! **

* Welcome to my newest follower, Suzanne Prickett. I hope you'll stop by often and always enjoy what you read and see! Thank you so much! *

"Writers will happen in the best of families." -- Rita Mae Brown